He would have to think of something to say to her to smooth her ruffled feathers. Especially since by some chance her own valentine had been the last to be chosen—by the last gentleman to choose.
He was still wondering by what folly he had chosen Miss Ward as his valentine and how soon he would actively regret his decision. Tonight, perhaps, when everyone else retired to bed in couples? He doubted that he and Miss Ward would be retiring to a shared bed quite that soon. Perhaps the next night. More probably the next. Perhaps not at all. He had no experience whatsoever in seducing virtuous spinsters. Indeed, he had no experience in seducing any female, having found seduction quite unnecessary since his eighteenth year. After succeeding to his title at the age of twenty-four he had found himself more often than not having to ward off unwelcome advances, rather as he had done with Florence. Not that hers should have been unwelcome exactly. She was attractive enough. Perhaps it was just that he had a perverse preference for choosing rather than being chosen.
Miss Ward was dressed in a russet-colored velvet habit for the ride, a matching hat with a black feather on her smooth brown hair. She looked slim and lithe, the duke thought, his eyes moving over her critically as he drew closer to her to help her into the saddle. She looked as if she probably spent more time outdoors than in. Lucy Sterns, on the other hand, was having to be lifted into the saddle by Shrimpton and was nervously expressing the hope that Florence had chosen her a quiet mount.
“You ride frequently, Miss Ward?” the duke asked her as they rode out of the stableyard into the freshness of a bright springlike day.
“I live in the country, your grace,” she said.
“And not many miles from here,” he said. “You must know Chelmsford Castle. Is it worth a visit?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is a favorite picnic spot in the summer. It should be lovely now. There will probably be primroses and snowdrops on the bank of the river.”
She spoke softly, seriously, unsmilingly. It was a long time, he realized suddenly in some surprise, since he had spoken with a lady—with a true lady, that was, not just one whose birth gave her the right to call herself so. Noisy flirting and raucous laughter were going on all about them.
“Then we must pick some,” he said.
“I would prefer to leave them to live out their natural span, your grace,” she said. “And in their natural surroundings.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, you really are a country dweller, are you not? But if we are to be in each other’s company for three days and if we are to be valentines, I really do not want to be ‘your graced’ every time you address me. My name is Gerard.”
She said nothing.
“And yours is Claire,” he said.
“Yes, your gr—,” she said. “Yes.”
He found it easier after that to ride in near silence, merely commenting on the scenery now and then. She rode well, her back very straight, her hands light on the reins, her body relaxed and graceful. How, he wondered, was he to flirt with such a woman? How was he to seduce her? He should already have been regretting his actions of that morning, he thought, since she was clearly not comfortable when he spoke to her. And yet strangely enough he felt somewhat exhilarated by the near-impossible challenge he seemed to have set himself. There had been so few challenges in life of late.
They dismounted and tethered their horses when they reached the foot of the hill on which the castle was built.
“Unfortunately,” Lady Florence said gaily, “there are only four compass directions and six couples. But I believe we can find six different directions to take, after all. Who wants to take the castle?”
“Claire is going to give me a guided tour,” the duke said. “Are you not, Claire?”
“If you wish,” she said.
They were to have the castle to themselves, it appeared, everyone else having found some other satisfactory destination with Florence’s help. They would all meet in an hour or so’s time and adjourn to a nearby inn for refreshments.
“Have fun!” Lady Florence called gaily, linking her arm through Percival Mullins’s and smiling dazzlingly up at him. “The forest is delightful at this time of the year, Percy. And quite deserted and secluded, of course.”
The duke offered his arm to Claire. “It seems we are to be lord and lady of the castle,” he said. “Is it in as good repair as it looks from here?”
“Not quite,” she said. “The outer walls of castles were always the strongest part. Much of the inside has crumbled away. But there are still two towers that are quite safe to climb, and the battlements are in good repair and give a wonderful view of the surrounding country.”
“Ah, then,” he said, “we must climb. I would guess that you are not one of those ladies who have to pause for breath every ten steps on a staircase, are you, Claire?”
“No,” she said.
They entered the arched gateway into the grassy courtyard and could see the ruined walls of what must have been the kitchen and living quarters.
“The tallest tower is safe?” he asked, pointing to the one opposite them.
“Yes,” she said.
Spiraling stone stairs led steeply upward from the courtyard, the only light provided by the narrow slits of the arrow windows. The climb seemed interminable. The duke amused himself with the sight of Claire’s shapely derriere and neat ankles as she climbed ahead of him. And then they came out onto the open top of the tower, surrounded by a reassuringly high crenellated wall. The clouds scudding by on the blue sky made it appear as if the tower were moving.
“Well, at least,” he said, “we are having our exercise for the day.”
